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When Eve comes, she always screws her eyes shut. Her spine pitches forward and her body folds over, leaving creases in her stomach like folds of origami. She makes noises sometimes, but only ever the smallest of sounds. They sound like hiccups, or muffled notes of pleasure that escape from the confines of her mouth. Villanelle never tires of watching, never tires of seeing Eve fight her way through an orgasm like she’s trying to squeeze all the air out from her body.

 


 

There is a wet kiss on the inside of her thigh.

“And how did you get this one?”

She sighs, burrowing a hand into the dark curls of Eve’s hair.

“A bear bit me.”

Eve snorts, inelegant and perfect to her ears.

“Ha-ha. Yeah, that’s very funny, very Russian of you.”

She shrugs the best she can from her position on the bed, half-slumped over massive hotel pillows.

“No, I am serious. It was a gay bar in Copenhagen. Apparently, they can get very aggressive about their drinks being spilled.”

“…oh, okay. Wow.”

Villanelle nods sagely before smiling with all her teeth. It is predatory, cheeky and positively annoying.

“Yes, wow. We are going to have round two now, okay? And then cake.”

“Are you five?”

They do have cake afterwards. It is a delightful chocolate ganache and Villanelle eats almost half of it.

 


 

Height might imply that she would be the big spoon, but she isn’t. Or at least, not always. As it turns out, Eve is a very good big spoon. She never holds too tight and her body never runs too hot to the touch. At night, when her mind is agitated and moves faster than she can control, she likes to drape curtains of Eve’s dark hair over her eyes. She inhales deeply and wills herself to get lost in the scent. She feels like a small girl running deeper and deeper into a hungry forest.

 


 

“Why do you not use emojis?”

“…I don’t know, they never seemed very necessary.”

Villanelle makes an outraged noise.

“So you only ever do things that are necessary?”

Eve pauses to consider this. Villanelle watches her, and sees another opening.

“Ohhhh, I see. So I am very necessary, yes?”

She gets a whack on the shoulder.

“Oh, shut up.”

Villanelle cackles before sending her a barrage of texts filled with hearts and other random emojis. The moment she hits send, her phone is smacked out of her hands and she is pulled deeper into the bed, which as far as she was concerned, is exactly where she was hoping to land.

 


 

Villanelle likes bruises. She likes the mottled colors, the imprints of teeth, the angry paths of nails on skin. At first, Eve is cautious. She treads carefully, never sure how to know when anything is too much or too painful. She tries to learn the habits of her body as she writhes beneath her, tries to decipher what the meaning is behind the angles of her knees and the curve of her shoulders. Eventually she learns that there is never enough, not for Villanelle. She takes and she takes, and she never says no, never seems to say stop. When she squeezes her hands tight around her wrists and fucks her into the soft material of the bed, Villanelle’s eyes tell her everything she needs to know. She dips her head and bites the tender skin of her neck, and feels fire when Villanelle shudders.

 


 

“Okay, I am hungry.”

“How are you always hungry?”

“Eve, are you calling me fat?”

Villanelle gasps and holds her stomach, pretending to appear self-conscious.

“You are not angry that I ate half the cake, are you?”

Eve rolls her eyes.

“Are you serious? Also, that was weeks ago.”

“Yes, but you know, you are a very resentful person.”

She gets an eyebrow raise for that one.

“Really? We’re going to go there?”

Villanelle slowly runs a hand over the scar by her waist and sighs dramatically.

“It’s okay, Eve.” She pauses. A pregnant pause, she thinks amusedly to herself. "I forgive you.”

She spins abruptly before Eve can throw anything at her face and heads to the bathroom, closing the door to the delightful sound of Eve’s grumbles.

 


 

When Eve turns over in her sleep, Villanelle likes to count the small freckles on her back. They are scattered as both light and dark pinpricks over the expanse of her skin. She uses her pinky finger to trace the lines between each one, and makes a small, stupid wish each time she completes a shape. She makes all kinds of wishes. Like, ‘I wish for a good movie to be on tomorrow’ and ‘I wish Eve will let me dress her in something sexy’ or ‘I wish she will never miss Nico.’ On the back of Eve’s neck, there are small threads of grey hair. She knows Eve plucks them out when she sees them, but personally, she likes them. They are a nice reminder that they are sharing time, that she is witness to the changes of her body. She knows Eve is sensitive about her age, but she can’t understand why. It is the last thing on her mind when she is curling her fingers into her body, tasting the sweet, familiar flavor of her mouth.

 


 

“Did you know you are a snorer?”

“…I am not.”

“You totally are. And you sleep with your mouth open.”

“Eve, why would you lie? It is not a cute look on you.”

This, of course, is a lie. Every look is a cute look on Eve, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“That’s stupid, you think everything’s a cute look on me. Even when it’s really, really not.”

Villanelle frowns and narrows her eyes.

“Now, see, that’s a cute look. You’ve got crow’s feet!”

Villanelle shrieks and Eve only narrowly misses the pillow to her head.

 


 

Eve is not sure when she will ever stop being struck by Villanelle’s beauty. She observes her from across the room, and watches her apply lotion with her long fingers, the motion well-practiced. Eve curls deeper into bed and stares at the way her bare back moves, skin bright from the bath. The muscles are evident when she pauses to stretch, and her mouth dries when she sees the way her spine arches, the dim light of the room revealing a map of past scars and bruises. Few are from her, but not all. She goes back and forth in her feelings when she remembers that Villanelle is (and has been) in contact with so many bodies, for both sex and death. It is a strange series of emotions, a mixture of possessiveness and fascination, but she knows the danger and trap of wanting to own and know everything about a person. When Villanelle finishes, she slinks into her arms and Eve searches for the smell of her warm body. She finds it buried beneath expensive soaps, and when she holds her delicate face in her hands, she peers into those half-lidded eyes and prays that Villanelle will always stay free.

 


 

 "Oh my god, how is this so good?"

Villanelle is only mildly envious of the way Eve is moaning into her chocolate croissant, but the satisfaction of having brought back the perfect breakfast serves as a good distraction.

"Have I ever done you wrong, Eve?"

"That's not a serious question, is it?"

Villanelle responds by snatching the croissant back, scattering crumbs over the sheets when she takes a massive bite.

"No! You better have another one in that bag for me. I'm serious. Also, stop scattering it all over the bed!"

Eve distractedly brushes at the sheets before pausing to pop a particularly big crumb into her mouth. She's about to go off on her again or rummage through her bag to search for another croissant when suddenly, she feels Villanelle's warm hand on her cheek.

She looks up, and is met with a kiss dipped in chocolate.

She decides not to worry about the crumbs after that, and even forgets about the croissants. At least for a little while.